


The Wager

by afinecollector (orphan_account)



Series: Not Waving but Drowning [26]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Anderson's a twit, Betting, Crime Scene, Epilepsy, Fit, Gen, I DON'T WANT IT CONTAMINATED, JME, Juvenile Myoclonic Epilepsy, Lestrade is pretty bad-ass, Myoclonic Seizures, Myoclonus, Seizure, Seizures, bet, epileptic, fitting, myoclonic jerks, sally's a bitch, wager
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-09
Updated: 2016-08-09
Packaged: 2018-08-07 15:09:46
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,016
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7719565
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/afinecollector
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Is it Tourette’s, do you think?” Philip said, absentmindedly, watching Sherlock and only half-listening to Sally as she rambled.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Wager

“Who is this idiot?” Philip thumbed over his shoulder and widened his eyes behind his glasses, begging Sally for some kind of explanation as their senior officer listened intently to the seemingly outlandish and random thoughts of the tall, pale, curly-headed twenty-something in a long coat. 

“Sherlock Holmes.” Sally replied. “Lestrade’s new friend. Felt sorry for the kid a year back when his aunt or someone totalled their car, killing everyone inside. Found him out of his mind on crack or something a few weeks later and now-,” she paused, laughing, “- now, he thinks he’s some kind of detective. Lestrade’s lapping it up. If you ask me, though, he’s a weirdo.” 

“Yeah - I’ll second that.” Philip nodded his head, walking away from the cordoned off section of the residential street. “Well whatever Lestrade wants to do with him, make sure he keeps him out of my crime scene.” 

Sally smiled and wet her lips with a quick swipe of her tongue. “I love it when you get possessive.” 

Philip laughed. “Don’t I know it?” He moved to stand beside Sally and the two watched as Lestrade watched Sherlock as he spoke, nodding at everything he said. “I take it he’s still some drug-hound?” 

“Lestrade says not.” Sally shrugged. “Why?” 

Philip threw out his right elbow in an odd jerk. “Twitchy.” 

“Probably is then, which makes this little dance they’re doing completely pointless and a waste of all of our time.” Sally sighed, rolling her eyes dramatically. “It’s nearly eight at night; I’d rather be heading home now and watching Eastenders on Sky Plus. Instead we’ve got to hang around here while Lestrade plays dress-up cop with this freak.” 

“Is it Tourette’s, do you think?” Philip said, absentmindedly, watching Sherlock and only half-listening to Sally as she rambled. 

“What?” She frowned, turning her head to look at him. 

“We should start a pool. Fiver a bet. My money’s on Tourette’s.” Philip nodded and Sally couldn’t help laughing. 

“I’m sticking with drugs.” She said, holding her hand out to shake Philip’s, sealing their wager. 

“Donovan!” 

Sally looked up, releasing Philip’s hand. “Coming, Sir.” She called out and walked quickly toward Lestrade and Sherlock, ducking under the police tape. 

“...okay, we’re looking for a white male, probably in his thirties. He’s going to be wearing Nike running shoes and he’ll be local to this area. No taller than five-foot-eight.” Lestrade reeled off. 

“What?” Sally frowned. 

“Suspect. That’s our suspect…” Lestrade said, frowning at her as though she’d lost her mind. 

“No taller than five-foot-eight.” Sally said, eyebrows raised. “Nobody saw who stabbed her, how the hell have you got a thirty-year-old, five-foot-eight male wearing Nike trainers from ‘nobody saw’?” She gave a slight laugh. 

Lestrade eyed her. “That’s why he’s here.” He pointed at Sherlock. “You’ve met Sergeant Donovan, haven’t you?” Lestrade asked him. 

“Briefly.” Sherlock nodded, and Sally found herself examining his face for signs of intoxication. “Pleasure.” He raised his eyebrows at her. 

Sally nodded wordlessly, and flattened her mouth into a thin line. “So that’s what I’m taking back for my paperwork? His description of an unknown and unseen person...from just standing over her body?” 

“Do you have anything better?” Lestrade asked her, his tone biting and sharp. 

Sally sighed. She ran her eyes over Sherlock’s tall frame again. “Are you high?”

“Excuse me?” Sherlock jerked his head back. 

“Twitchy.” She said, echoing Philip’s earlier observation. “Or is it like a syndrome. Do you have Tourette’s?” 

“Donovan!” Lestrade snapped at her. 

“What? You really want your integrity damaged by working with some kid who’s high on crack whilst giving you leads?” She dared to drip sarcasm into her tone. 

“Just do your job.” Lestrade barked, sending her packing with a firm look of distaste. “Sorry - Sally doesn’t really do...well, anyone who isn’t our forensics guy.” He smirked. “I really appreciate your help - and I’ll appreciate it even more if you’re right.” 

“Of course I’m right.” Sherlock said firmly, rolling his right shoulder. 

Lestrade wavered a moment. “You’re not, are you?” 

“Not what?” Sherlock looked at him with firm, fixed eyes. 

“High. On something. Because, hate to admit it as I do, she’s got a point.” He nodded sideways to Donovan, watching her climb into a car a few feet away as he and Sherlock ducked under the police line and began walking away. 

“Myoclonic jerks.” Sherlock said bluntly. “It was a long night.” He coughed, clearing his throat. “Not all seizures look like the one I had in your drunk tank.” 

Lestrade stopped walking, taking in the words. “Shit….” He walked on a few more steps, meeting up with Sherlock’s quick strides. “Sorry, mate.” 

“Everyone always is.” Sherlock pushed his hands into his coat pockets. “You’ll call me? When you find him, I mean.” He said, turning and walking backwards so that he could watch Lestrade’s reaction. 

Lestrade nodded. “Sure… yeah, sure. Thanks.” He watched Sherlock turn and continue to walk away, watching the subtle jerk of his right shoulder as he moved and frowned, shaking his head. He’d look up on that, he told himself. If this kid was any good, he’d be around more often, and Lestrade knew he’d need to know enough to manage the questions his team would throw at him. “Anderson…” he called out, approaching the bearded man as he removed his anti-contamination suit. “I take it you and Donovan had a bet going?” 

Philip frowned. “A bet about what?” 

“The kid,” he nodded over his shoulder. “It isn’t drugs. And whichever of you threw Tourette’s in the ring...good, but no cigar.” He raised his eyebrows at him. “Kind of cancels the bet out, doesn’t it? If you’re both wrong?” 

“Sir…” Philip babbled. Lestrade held up his hand by way of a goodbye and began to walk away, heading toward his car parked in front of Philip’s. Philip watched him slip into the driver’s seat and wasn’t sure if he felt more embarrassed that Lestrade had caught them out, or annoyed that he had got it wrong. Or, if he just wanted to know what the truth was.


End file.
